The Shewstone

by Jane Fletcher

  No footsteps or voices could be heard. Matt did not think anyone was around, but did not look to check. There was no point in knowing whether or not she was observed. She could not make a witness vanish. The trick was to act in such an unremarkable way nobody would bother investigating. Swinging the empty bucket, Matt continued on through the interlinked courtyards.

  Eawynn was waiting, an unspoken query on her face.

  “Job done.” Matt grinned as she slipped onto the bench, close enough to whisper. “And you were amazing. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  “The pole cracked me on the leg. It’ll leave a bruise, but that’s all.”

  “Do you always dance like that?”

  “The last time I danced was on my sixth birthday. We didn’t do it in the temple. Dancing is not seemly for a priestess.”

  “I’d like to…” dance with you, Matt swallowed the words, “…congratulate you on your distraction. It was inspired.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eawynn blushed faintly, but even faint was noticeable on her white skin. Matt gripped her own knees firmly. Had she ever wanted so badly to hold a woman in her arms? “If ever you’d like to take up a life of crime, you’ve got a job waiting.”

  Eawynn shook her head, but she was smiling.

  *

  Dawn was still an hour off. The Plaza of the Emperors was in darkness, broken only by the river of flaming torches. The procession of priests and priestesses flowed from the temple complex and onto the palace steps. Already, small clumps of civilians were scattered about the plaza, ready to watch the spectacle.

  Eawynn ended up toward the back, at the top of the stairs. She stood, half hidden behind a column. It was not such a bad spot. She had a good view and was sheltered from the chill wind. If everything went wrong and the painted orb was denounced as a fake, her chances of getting away were slight, but at least her state of nerves was not so conspicuous. She did not want to draw attention to herself. Fortunately, nobody she knew was nearby.

  Matt had been confident they were in no immediate danger. The ritual would go ahead, regardless of whether the fake was spotted. The light was on their side, and Eawynn had to concede Matt’s artwork had been better than she expected. It might pass with somebody who had only glimpsed the Shewstone before. However, anyone familiar with the genuine artefact would not be fooled.

  The Shewstone had been in Oswald’s possession throughout the journey from Fortaine. Surely he would not be taken in for a second. Nor would he be the only one. The Shewstone had been in Cyningesburg for a month. How many others had taken the time to gloat over their prize?

  The crack of marching feet ricocheted around the plaza. The army was coming from the encampment on the flood plain. Standard bearers led the way up the imperial avenue. When they reached the plaza, the column broke into cohorts and fanned out. The massed ranks came to a halt in ruler straight lines, twenty deep and spanning the width of the open space. History books claimed the fighting troops of six whole legions, fifteen thousand armed soldiers, could line up in the Plaza of the Emperors. This muster did not number a fifth of that, yet was still impressive.

  Apart from the temple and court, a few Rihtcynn civilians lived in Cyningesburg, mainly merchants, overseers, craftsmen, and their families. Everyone had turned up. In contrast to the army’s geometrically precise array, wads of civilians milled around on either side. In the darkness at the far end of the plaza, Eawynn sensed rather than saw the others, a mass huddling in the shadows. Even the slaves had come to witness the ritual.

  To the east, a hint of dawn touched the sky. Sunrise was a half hour away. The doors of the palace swung open to the sound of grinding hinges. All heads turned to see the imperial retinue emerge. Empress Aedilhild Wisa Mearcweada Bregu Rihtcynn was a step in the lead, dressed in her most regal clothes. Steward Ceolwulf was at her shoulder, while Oswald and an elderly woman walked immediately behind. The entourage of courtiers and officers followed, in order of rank, escorted by a phalanx of ornate imperial guardsmen.

  From the midpoint down, the flight of stairs was split in two by a stone buttress. The flat top had been made ready as a rostrum for the imperial party. Empress Aedilhild stopped in front of her throne, while Ceolwulf, Oswald, and the unknown woman carried on down the steps. A low, slab-like altar had been positioned in the plaza, some twenty yards from the bottom. The three went around the altar and faced the empress, forming a line with two torch-bearing guardsmen. Eawynn wondered if the woman was the envoy first sent to consult the Shewstone, now honoured with Oswald as its finder.

  Steward Ceolwulf’s voice rang out, loud enough to echo from the buildings opposite. “Your Imperial Majesty. Today will go down in the annals of the mighty Rihtcynn nation. Today, the Sidea will flow again. Cyningesburg will return to its true glory. Nothing will stand in our way. Let the Thraelas tremble and lament. The price of their treachery will be reclaimed in blood, sorrow, and servitude. Your name will shine as brightly as the greatest of your forebears. A new sword has been forged. Today, it will be raised. Tomorrow, it strikes.”

  A roar rose from the Rihtcynn, but not everyone cheered. As light seeped into the world, the mass of silent slaves acquired weight and form. Eawynn had not realised how many there were. Had anyone done the sums? They outnumbered the soldiers three to one. The slaves were unarmed and leaderless, but there were so many. A chill ran through Eawynn.

  The empress replied. “Steward Ceolwulf Husa Elbacnola, we commend you for your tireless work in our service. Rest assured, all will receive what is due, both reward and penance. A new day dawns. We praise the gods that we have been blessed to witness it. Continue. Summon forth Iparikani. Reverse the ancient cataclysm.” She sat down.

  A new procession appeared on the western side of the plaza, leaving the temple gates. At its centre were four robed priests, bearing a litter. It was too far to see, but Eawynn knew the Shewstone was on it—the fake Shewstone. The moment they appeared, the assembled throng of clerics began the song of “Liffrea Light-bringer, Lord of the Skies,” the oldest and most sacred of religious poems.

  Normally, Eawynn would have been euphoric, to hear the beautiful words of Cynnreord, sung as they should be, by so many voices on such a stage, but dread blotted out all else. Why had they gone through with the swap? Matt had not questioned its wisdom. But why had she said nothing? Eawynn no longer wanted or needed the Shewstone.

  The litter reached the waiting steward. Ceolwulf lifted the orb and held it high, so all might see, then placed it on the stone slab in front of him. The light was strengthening by the minute. Now Eawynn could see the altar was a rough block of granite, looking as if it was unworked since the day it had been lifted from the ground. What was its significance? Eawynn did not know.

  A male goat was dragged, fighting and kicking to the altar, and a priest placed a knife in the steward’s hand. Blood spurted as he cut the animal’s throat. Ceolwulf, Oswald, and the elderly woman retreated a short way, while those who had carried the litter used the lifeless goat’s body to draw a pentagram in blood around the granite slab. The four priests then bowed low to the empress before leaving, taking the dead goat with them.

  The chanting ended. In the following silence, Ceolwulf shouted, “Behold the Orb of Celestial Captivity. May our gift be acceptable to Iparikani.”

  All eyes were on the altar. This was it. If the fraud was going to be challenged, it was now. Eawynn’s mouth was dry. Who was close enough to see properly? The litter bearers had said nothing, but possibly they were not familiar with the genuine Shewstone. Ceolwulf had held the fake, but it was common knowledge his eyesight was failing with age.

  Oswald was the greatest threat. He would be more familiar with the real Shewstone than anyone, and he was standing no more than five paces from the altar. Eawynn stared at him, while Oswald in turn stared at the counterfeit orb. His brows drew together in a frown. The beginnings of doubt were manifest on his face. He glanced to the east, as if trying to judge the speed
of sunrise, as if hoping for better light.

  Eawynn felt her stomach cramp. Why had she insisted Matt steal the Shewstone? Suddenly, looking at Oswald, part of an answer dropped into her head. As long as she was on a mission to reclaim the stone, she had a sop for her conscience.

  Oswald Husa Eastandune was the man who had killed Edmund Flyming. He was the man on whom Matt had sworn revenge. Even though Eawynn now understood her suggestion that Matt report him to the legal authorities had been ridiculously naïve, she could not accept cold-blooded murder. So why had she not simply abandoned Matt and her quest?

  Eawynn was not going back to the temple in Fortaine, and she was not going to become part of the new Rihtcynn Empire, but this did not mean her only other option was to stay with Matt. Yet, for all her deliberations, the one path she had not considered was simply abandoning Matt to complete her quest for revenge alone. Why? Instead Eawynn had stuck blindly to her own initial plans. Was it just because she did not want to search too deeply into her own heart to uncover her real motives?

  “I call on the Captain of the Imperial Guard to stand forth.” Ceolwulf’s voice rang out one more time.

  The captain was an impressively tall man. His uniform was the most elaborate Eawynn had seen. His embossed breastplate was gold, as was his helmet, with its stiff plume of dyed feathers. In his hands he carried a huge golden hammer.

  Ceolwulf moved aside, well clear of the altar, followed by the elderly woman. Before joining them, Oswald hesitated a moment longer, giving the fake orb one last, hard look. His frown deepened, then he shook his head, and squared his shoulders. His expression cleared and he walked to where Ceolwulf was waiting.

  A junior priest arrived with a leather bound volume. Oswald and the elderly woman held it open between them, acting as a human book rest. The ritual was about to begin in earnest, and nobody was going to challenge Matt’s counterfeit. The surge of relief was so great, Eawynn had to put her hand on the column beside her for support.

  However, it was not a complete end to her worries. She did not want Matt to kill Oswald in cold blood. She would do anything to stop her. So was that it? Had stealing the stone been a pointless, stupid delaying tactic? Eawynn understood how upset Matt was at the death of her adopted father. But when Matt killed Oswald, it would affect the way she saw Matt. And despite everything that had gone before, Eawynn was getting to like the way she saw Matt.

  *

  The view from the far side of the plaza was not good, even though Matt was better off than most. She had joined a group of more adventurous slaves and climbed onto the plinth of a statue. Normally, it was the sort of thing that would risk unpleasant consequences, but for once, the Rihtcynn seemed willing to ignore what the slaves were doing.

  From her position, clinging to the tail of an iron griffin, Matt could see over the soldiers’ heads. She had tried, without success, to pick Eawynn from the ranks of clerics on the palace steps. In fact, the only person she could identify with certainty was the empress, and that was purely because nobody else would be sitting on the throne.

  After all her assurances, if Matt was honest, she would admit to a degree of relief once the ritual was definitely underway. The fake Shewstone must have been on the litter carried from the temple. She had seen the old man who did all the shouting pick it up and wave it in the air, before putting it down again. Standing on tiptoe, Matt was just able to catch the corner of a stone slab they were using as an altar, but she did not have the angle to see more, and now the flash officer with the pretty helmet was standing in the way.

  The old man moved aside. He began talking again, although not as loudly as before. From the back of the plaza, his voice was a soft drone. Not that it made any difference, as far as Matt was concerned. Even when he was shouting, she had not understood a word of the Cynnreord. The old man appeared to be singing rather than speaking. Three times, the massed clerics joined in. Somebody somewhere was banging a gong. On a cue, all the torches were simultaneously put out. It was suitably dramatic, although to Matt’s mind, could have been improved by another dance from Eawynn.

  She tried to assess the mood around her. The slaves were not the target of the charade. The ones the grifters needed to con were the empress’s followers. However, intimidating slaves would be a side benefit. How many were swallowing the farce?

  Only a handful of stars remained in the pale blue above Matt’s head, and off to the east, orange and pink filled the sky behind the roofs of Cyningesburg. Sunrise was scant minutes away. Suddenly, the old man’s voice stopped. The big soldier with the helmet adopted a theatrical pose, holding over his head what looked like a golden sledgehammer.

  Gold! Matt had to restrain her laughter. Who makes a hammer out of gold? Not just because of the cost or weight. If it were real, the shaft would bend double on the first strike. The hammer had to be painted iron, but it meant they were going for broke in the effort to impress.

  On the opposite side of the plaza, the first ray of sunlight hit the tallest spire on the palace. The old man shouted one more time. This would be it. Matt shifted her grip on the griffin’s tail and swung forward, not that it improved her view at all. What was it going to be, smoke and mirrors or an embarrassing anti-climax?

  At first, the disturbance seemed like a dark speck, floating in Matt’s vision. She blinked, trying to clear the blurred shadow, but instead it grew and deepened. Shouts began to ring out. It was not just her eyes. Others were seeing something as well, between the stone slab and the palace steps. The effect was as if dark water was flowing from nowhere into mid-air. Matt was impressed. It was far better than anything she expected. How were they doing it?

  The rippling waves faded as the edge of the darkness solidified into a fixed oval, a dozen feet wide and twice as high, a hole in the air. Through it, Matt could see nothing. The empress and all her retinue were hidden from view. Then, deep inside the darkness, something moved—something swimming up from the depths of the void, something coming toward them, something seeking entrance to their world.

  Close by, slaves yelled and a few even fled. On the palace steps, several of the assembled clerics also edged back. The first quiver of doubt quickened the beating in Matt’s chest. It had to be a trick. It had to be, though she had no idea how it was being done. The effect was very convincing, but it had to be a trick. And yet, Matt could almost believe there was something in the darkness, waiting to emerge.

  Suddenly, the darkness flexed, folded back on itself, and vanished, giving birth to a shape, five times the height of a man. The figure’s skin was red and glistening. His head was an unholy mixture of pig and cat, with foot-long tusks and horns. Four hugely muscled arms reached upward, claws outstretched, as if wanting to rend the sky. A barbed tail flicked into view. From the waist down, matted, blood-red fur covered his body and legs, partially cloaking the bulging genitals. His feet ended in goat’s hooves. Even without seeing, Matt just knew he had hooves. And it was no trick.

  More slaves were now screaming and running away. A man almost knocked Matt from her vantage point in his scramble to get down, but she stayed, staring at the impossible figure. The demon threw back his head and roared. Over the shouts and shrieks, the old man was heard again. There was no hint of fear in his voice. Matt would give him that. The old man had guts. The soldier with the golden sledgehammer swung it over his head and down in an arc. The clink of metal on rock was just audible over the rising uproar. Matt guessed the blow smashed her fake Shewstone.

  The demon took a step forward and roared again, and then a third time, but his tone was changing. Matt did not know if there were words in the roar, but she had no trouble understanding the fury and malice. It was the roar of a demon who thought he was being cheated, the roar of a very, very angry demon.

  One massive hand reached down, picked up the stone altar, and hurled it across the plaza. It smashed into the temple façade. A barrage of ear-piercing screams erupted, some from those injured by falling debris. Yet, the main players by the p
alace had not moved. What sort of behaviour were they expecting from a demon? Did they know how badly awry their plans were going? Matt could see the idea dawning on some. The lower palace steps were emptying. Still, the soldier with the hammer held his ground, either frozen in fear or assuming all would work out well. The demon picked him up and slammed him headfirst into the ground.

  Chaos and panic let rip. Clumps of Rihtcynn civilians broke and fled, following the slaves in a headlong rush from the plaza. At the front, the demon leapt onto the palace steps, his arms flying in a blur. Bodies were sent spinning skyward. Amid them, the broken throne tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground. The empress’s chances were poor if she was still sitting on it. Bodies were lifted up in clawed hands and ripped apart.

  “Eawynn.” Matt’s wild cry was pointless.

  The demon turned from the palace and roared again. He swung two arms in a throwing action, like a child having a tantrum, hurling a toy. A ball of crackling blue flame shot from his hands. Those in its path had no hope. Men and women were scattered like straw on the wind. More fireballs followed, smashing into buildings and carving lines of death through the ranks of soldiers. The demon resumed his attack on the palace steps. Surging waves of bodies showed where clerics were trying to retreat, but they were too densely packed.

  Eawynn would be among them. Desperately, Matt looked down from her perch. A torrent of people were gushing by below. If she left the plinth she would be swept away, or trampled. On the other side of the plaza, the flagstones were now deserted, apart from bodies and the demon. The remaining clerics were scrambling up the steps, a heaving mass, all trying to get through the palace doors at once. The demon hurled another fireball, the biggest so far. The front of the palace caved in. Another blast and the entire portico gave way, burying those trying to escape.

  The demon’s attack continued until the domed roofs had fallen. Black smoke billowed up. Where doors had once been was now the open entrance to a ruin. But not all were running away. To shouts from officers, the remaining cohorts had taken up battle formations. The soldiers advanced on the demon, weapons drawn. The outcome was short, bloody, and predictable. By the time the last black-cloaked figure had fallen or fled, the outpouring from the plaza had slowed.